


Tuck In, Blue Eyes, or, Noel Gets a Handshake

by kateyboosh



Category: The Great British Bake Off RPF, The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Banter, Biscuits might be ruined for you forever, Blowjobs, Crack, Everyone has awakenings, Gratuitous tropical fruit references, M/M, Mischief and monkey business because that's my MO, The Hollywood Handshake, You will consider Paul Hollywood's cock, and I hope you do too!, e v e r y o n e - Freeform, this is normal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27906238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh
Summary: It's a beautiful day to be on your knees in the tent.That's it, that's the fic.
Relationships: Noel Fielding/Paul Hollywood
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17
Collections: Trash Triplets Crackmas 2020: It's All About Range





	Tuck In, Blue Eyes, or, Noel Gets a Handshake

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the only gruff Northerner I really want to imagine Noel with is his platonic comedy partner, but clearly he's had some naughty little Paul thoughts, so...
> 
> He just kept giving me material with every cheeky reference to Paul on this series of Bake Off, and I wept every time, and starsonthebrow and Terrantalen rubbed their hands together with equal parts glee and horror and said, "Looks like you need to get back in that doc that was supposed to be finished...." Right, guys? Thanks for always encouraging me to do questionable things and not running screaming in the other direction. All of their wonderful ficspiration in the end notes, because no spoilers just yet.
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this. A Lot. Shrug.

The sun is shining. There's a warm breeze wafting through the field that smells of fresh cut grass and icing sugar. The birds are singing in the trees.

It's a beautiful day to be on your knees in the tent.

"Ohhhh," Noel moans as Paul laps at the head of his cock, his paint-dotted fingers brushing at the back of the baker's perfectly clipped, steel-gray hair. When he loped out of his trailer in his pointy boots looking for some light mischief that morning, he didn’t expect he’d find it like this.

Paul had really gone for it, with a relish and vigor that had surprised Noel. Sure, Noel’s no stranger to the joy of sucking a good cock, but Paul?

With the looks he and Paul had exchanged, Noel figured it would happen at some point, but he thought he’d need to ease Paul in, warm him up a bit, tell a few jokes. Maybe he'd even pull out his Fantasy Man voice for an “On your knees, get set, suck!” before pulling out his cock.

It was all unnecessary. Paul knew what he was after the moment he stepped his booted foot in the tent and saw Noel faffing about, building a little house out of spatulas for a spare meringue he’d found lost and abandoned on someone’s bench.

Paul always knows what he’s after the moment he steps into the tent. Noel likes that about him. He likes his decisiveness and his directness. Everything that comes out of his mouth seems to come easy, assuredly. 

And with Paul’s assured mouth now wrapped decisively around Noel, Noel knows he’s going to be the one coming, easy.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re really good at this?” He doesn’t mean for that bit to come out as a question, or to sound like he’s been hanging out with his lips wrapped round a tank of helium, but it does. Paul doesn’t seem to mind, lips wrapped around him as he is, his suction as strong and perfect as his hands are when they’re wrapped around a lump of dough, kneading it into the bench, pounding it elastic.

Noel groans, the image sending him a little closer. It morphs a bit in his mind, Paul’s thick, sausagey fingers gently kneading into the pale skin of his arse instead of a lump of ciabatta dough. Sure, Noel likes it when Paul produces little pastries, tiny cakes and pretty petits fours with miniscule designs, his strong hands capable of delicate, elegant work. But what really gets Noel off is his sharp, direct masculinity.

Speaking of. Noel takes a breath and looks down when he hears Paul's zip. He blinks. But...

He heard Paul's zip. He knows he did. He knows what his own moans sound like, and while he's a well-known surrealist artist/comedian with a talent for voiceover work, he knows he can't imitate a zipper on a pair of perfectly pressed designer denim jeans while he’s buried throat deep and in the throes of passion.

Paul's wearing denim cutoffs under his actual jeans. The mere sight makes Noel's cock twitch.

Oh, usually it’s velvets and lace and leathers, and of course, wild prints that get him going, not to mention tweeds and soft corduroys and plaid shirts worn with unfortunate camo shirts and sandals. But traditional denim is unexplored territory. He wonders about the blue Narnia of Paul’s closet. He knows there’s acid wash in there, frayed remnants of denim chaps worn soft and smooth, selvedge and whiskers and sharp creases.

He wonders if Paul has a denim apron that hits right at chest level, the fabric rustling against his tart lime nipples. He wonders if Paul will wear that, and only that, for him, if he bats his lashes and asks nice. He wonders if he can flirt his way into Paul’s trailer and take the tour and end up with his toes pointed skyward on the sofa in the lounge. Or Paul’s toes pointed skyward on his bed, surrounded in a sea of denim, the deep blues bringing out his stormy, flashing eyes.

Still. He can’t help himself.

“Are those denim pants?” Noel giggles, the sound cutting off in the back of his throat to morph into a choked groan. Paul frowns at him, his brow furrowing as he bobs his head. It’s a convenient way to say yes.

“Was it laundry day today? Or are they denim chastity shorts?”

Noel’s a city boy at heart, and the fresh, clean country air feels weird on his wet dick when it slides out of Paul’s scowling mouth. He immediately pushes his hips forward until the tip bumps back against Paul’s lips.

Paul eyes him from beneath stormy brows, the blue of his eyes hypnotic, his mouth open and ready to comment. Noel nearly gets sucked in, wondering what it would be like to shrink down and nestle in the chest pocket of Paul's denim shirt, in the cave of his powerful buttocks, in the cup of his meaty hands, fingers curling tight around him. The corner of the bench chooses that moment to press into the small of his back and yank him out of his reverie.

“No way. You know how it works, Blue Eyes. Save the judging til after,” Noel smirks. “I get to chat during.”

Paul scowls but grips him with one hand and sucks him back down, his head bobbing rapidly. Noel hisses into the sweetly scented air wafting around him as Paul reaches for his second zip with the other hand. Noel closes his eyes and concentrates on the feel of Paul’s tongue, on the birdsong outside the tent, the wet slurping and wanking noises that are sending him closer and closer.

Well. He closes one eye, and peeks with the other as Paul parts his sea of denim. _Yeah, not bad_ , Noel thinks. He's seen his share of Northern men before, and Paul's decent. That fleet of polished-up sports cars certainly aren't a cock replacement as far as he can see, through one screwed-up eye.

It's the thought of being laid out on the leather backseat of Paul's newest acquisition, his bronzed chest gleaming above Noel in the moonlight like a perfectly plaited egg-washed loaf, that sends him over the edge.

His body seizes up, knife-sharp “ah”s spilling from his lips, one hand cupped around the back of Paul’s gelled head, the other white-knuckled on the top of the bench behind him. He pants his way through it, his chest straining against the buttons of his shirt, his knees a bit weak and ankles wobbly in his heels.

When Noel opens his eyes toward the end, it’s to the fuzzy image of Paul’s cock spilling over his hand, glazing his fingers like he’s putting icing on a batch of biscuits, his features during his moment of happiness somewhere between baffled badger, angry bear, and gentle garden gnome.

It’s also to Prue’s shocked gaze.

Noel waves at her like a tiny child. For a split second, his brain tells him to flee, because this is so much worse than a broken teacup or a display board crumbling in his mischievous hands like fragile pastry cages. It’s like getting caught out by your mum, your teachers at school, that well-off lady that lives in the poshest house on the block a couple of bus changes away, and your grandmother, all at once.

Still, the moment is all wet, exquisite heat and bright, abstract colors and shapes that aren’t at home with the soft, safe, rustic essence of the tent.

He kind of likes it.

Later on, Noel giggles when he reads Prue's next novel. It’s a departure from her typical fare, something he thinks he once heard referred to as “slash fiction,” not that he’s ever read (or written) any with his fizzing cerulean orbs himself. He doesn’t touch himself as he reads about Prue’s two blue eyed men locked in a passionate, tangled haze over the bench in a little sandwich shop. He just blushes a bit and saves his feelings for the night times and texts Paul some smiley faces and a little line of x’s instead.

Back in the present day, Noel watches the color drain from Prue’s face until she’s as pale as well-whipped cream. Then, he watches her eyebrow raise and her mouth open and the shrug of her colorful shoulder. She nods at him, eyes darting down and then back up, and he nods back, and off she pops, gone to rethink some basic principles.

Meanwhile, Paul finishes. He looks wrung out but dashing, the face of his large watch glittering when he wipes his mouth off with the back of his clean hand. Noel absentmindedly tosses him a flowered tea towel from the top of the bench to clean the other. He pats the top of Paul’s head and tucks himself back in his drainpipes, smoothing his shirt carefully back over his now-covered cock.

It is a family show, after all.

Paul swallows and coughs. “Christ, Fielding. You taste of pineapple and - what is that, _glitter_?” His voice has that incredulous, confounded note that Noel loves.

Noel purses his lips in a smirk. “Perfect, that’s just the flavor combination I was going for. Thank you, Mr. Hollywood, really.”

Paul rolls his eyes and zips his first zip. “D’you think anyone saw?” he asks, his voice extra gruff. It sends a little tingle down Noel’s spine.

He takes a beat to respond with a “no” in a voice so high it cracks the atmosphere. Paul doesn’t notice as he goes for his second zip.

“D’you always look like that when you… y’know…” he asks.

Noel frowns, then pulls his favorite come face, screwing up an eye and sliding his mouth open to show his teeth.

“Usually it looks like this, but I wanted it to be special for you,” he says. It’s difficult to talk with his face like that, but he manages, and then slides back to an approximation of what he knows he must have looked like seeing Prue there, all wide, deer in the headlights eyes and mouth a shocked O.

Paul chuckles and makes to stand, reaching for the bench past Noel’s hip. Noel blocks him and sticks out a hand instead.

“Come on, Blue Eyes,” Noel breathes. Paul’s grip is tight around his. He doesn’t pull Noel down so much as he uses him to brace against as he stands.

Once he’s at his full height, all rumpled denim and stormy eyes, Noel squeezes his hand briefly but doesn’t let go. Paul eyes him up, appraises him.

“Can I have my hand back, now, Noel?”

There’s a little twinkle in Paul’s eye.

“No. Go on, you know you want to,” Noel says, tipping his chin up at Paul. His eyes are twinkling too.

“Doesn’t work like that,” Paul starts.

“Come on,” Noel says. “We can go for a cup of tea first, but you already know what you want to do.”

Paul holds his gaze. It’s like having a staring contest with a steel beam on a construction site, but Noel wins out in the end.

Paul shakes his head and squeezes his hand and pumps his arm once, twice, a third time.

Noel beams.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to my partners in crime for all their ficspiration:
> 
> Terrantalen sealed the deal with the “Paul wears denim pants under his regular denim jeans" image, which was too good/bad to resist. Thank you, darling, and also, I am quite sorry. Maybe.
> 
> starsonthebrow suggested Noel Gets a Handshake for the title, and oh yes, that was getting used. Thank you, love, and also, my deepest apologies. Kind of.


End file.
